


Downpour

by InyriAscending



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InyriAscending/pseuds/InyriAscending
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Orzammar, there is no such thing as thunderstorms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downpour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinVraal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinVraal/gifts).



Author’s note:

Inspired by the following prompt: _Here's one I've considered myself- Alistair encounters Dwarven culture shock with an Aeducan Warden. Can be shippy or not, your choice. I just thought there was an interesting tension with an Aeducan, who up until recently was a privileged (if somewhat paranoid) member of the upper class, and is suddenly (a) nigh unto a vagabond, (b) living under the gigantic sky of outdoors, and (c) thrust into leadership._  


* * *

 

By the first hours of the morning, the storm is nearly on top of the camp and the rain begins. Alistair opens one eye and groans as fat drops of water strike the roof of the tent, then rolls over and buries his head in the sleeping-furs. They’ll be marching in the rain, then, he and the Lady and the witch- it’s like something out of one of the fairy-tales Arl Eamon’s maids would whisper as he drifted off to sleep.

He wonders if, like in the stories, the witch will melt in the rain. _Unlikely,_ he decides; all the Tower mages he’s ever met managed to stay quite solid in a downpour and he doesn’t see why an apostate should be any different, more’s the pity.

Lightning floods the gaps in the tentwalls even as a thunderclap half-deafens him; the wind sounds like a woman screaming.

 _No, not the wind._ Definitely a woman screaming.

He unties the tent flap and peers out into the storm. In the dark of the campsite he can barely see the dwarven woman crawling from the remains of her collapsed tent. The thunder growls, again and again, as she claps her hands over her ears, shrieks, then kicks her tangled feet against the sodden canvas.

By the time he gets around the remains of the fire her right leg is free. Crouching beside her, Alistair loops his arms through hers and lifts her upright; she shakes off the rest of the canvas and scowls at the remains of the tent.

“Come on,” he tugs at her hand, looking down- and up again, away from the wet linen clinging to her skin- “I’ve already bathed once this week. Let’s get in out of the rain.”

They duck back into his tent, and he tosses a thick woolen blanket toward her. She runs her fingers through her tangled hair, wraps the blanket around her shoulders and sneezes, thrice. “Is there-” she yelps and clutches at his arm as another thunderclap sets their teeth to rattling- “is there another battle? I woke up when I heard the cannons, and then the tent collapsed.”

“A battle? Not unless the darkspawn have learned to use artillery, given we’ve no army left.” Alistair pries her fingers from his wrist and lights the lamp, flint against metal sparking in the darkness; she rocks back as her grip on him loosens, pulling her shirt down to cover her bare knees. “It’s just a thunderstorm, not cannonfire.”

She stares back at him. “Thunder... storm?”

“It’s, y’know, rain, and lightning, and-” he has wet leaves stuck to his feet, and peels one away before he looks up at her uncomprehending face. “Water from the sky? Big bright flashing lights and loud noise?”

Her eyes glitter, huge in the lamplight. “The water comes from the _sky_?”

He sighs. “I reckon they don’t teach you about rain in Orzammar, then.”

“Why would I care about surfacer business? Dwarves who go to the surface are made casteless, expelled from their House.” She busies herself with wiping the mud from her hands. “I assumed I’d be in Orzammar forever.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“With a witch and the second-to-last Grey Warden within two hundred miles, off to recruit an army.” Hands clean, she huddles closer within the blanket. “The ancestors must be laughing. A Commander of Orzammar, reduced to this.”

A gust of wind nearly lifts the tent airborne; he stands, bracing against the central support. “Commander? Good thing you’re leading, then. I’m more the loyal follower type.”

“I’m not fit to lead. With my record to date, you’ll be lucky if you survive the week.” She narrows her eyes, looking up at the poles supporting the tent. “Oh. So that’s how they fit together.”

“You’re not- what?” Alistair laughs. “Your tent did look a little shaky, but I thought you’d bite my ankles off when I offered to help, so I left you to it- you have put up a tent before, haven’t you?”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” The wind calms, a little, and he sits cross-legged across from her. “What, did you sleep out in the open like Chasind during expeditions?”

“Don’t be absurd.” She pulls a twig from her hair and throws it; it hits him squarely in the forehead. “We had tents, and I had a camp steward.”

“Ooh, the privileged aristocracy. So you’ve never-”

“No, Alistair, I have never pitched a tent in my life.” She sighs. “Nor do I cook, clean, or wash dirty clothing, so if you’re looking for assistance in any of those areas I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“No one’s perfect. Besides, Morrigan can cook,” he grins, “so we’ll make do, and I’ll wash my own knickers.”

“Thank the ancestors for that.”

He studies her face in the lamplight. “Can I ask you something, Lady Aeducan?”

“I’m no Lady-” she jumps again, lightning and thunder nearly simultaneous, “not anymore- sod this awful noise!- I used to live in a palace. Provings were fought in my honor. I could have been queen of my people, and now I don’t even exist.”

“Because you’re... casteless, you said? Living up here?” He passes one of the sleeping-furs to her; she reaches out for it, fingers lacing through the soft fur reflexively.

“Worse than casteless.” She brushes the pelt against her cheek and smiles faintly. “That would have been enough- Thracia Outcaste, Thracia Stone-Lost. They stripped me from the Memories, Alistair. In the records of my people I literally no longer exist.”

He nods. “I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds terrible. I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as my brother’s going to be.” Her expression darkens for a moment.

“You’re welcome to sleep in here until morning, by the way- even if we can salvage your tent, it’s too dark to manage it now,” he tosses another fur from the pile in her direction, “and we’ll need to find you some proper gear once we get to Lothering.”

“I know- there wasn’t much time before the battle to resupply, and I left Orzammar with nothing but a sword and shield.” The lamp is nearly out, but even in the half-light the scars on her feet and ankles stand out against the paler skin as she stands. Her head barely brushes the roof where he would have had to crouch, her shirt reaching her calves- standard military issue, clearly made for a grown man, not a woman barely the size of a half-grown human child. “I didn’t even have boots, until... oh, by the Stone, my armor’s still out there.”

“It’ll keep until daylight.” He forms a neat little pile between them with his pack and armor, dividing the tent. “Get some sleep, m’lady.”

“Stop calling me Lady and I’ll consider it.” She settles on her side, discarding the now-damp, mud-stained blanket for the clean furs; he looks away, deliberately, until she’s quite covered. “But you had a question, you said?”

“Do you think we have a chance?”

“To defeat the Archdemon, you mean? I don’t suppose our luck can get much worse.” She stretches and yawns, and settles in to sleep. “And as Flemeth said- if we can make good on all of those treaties, it does sound rather like an army, doesn’t it?”

Tightening the laces of the tent flap one last time, he shrugs. “I suppose you’re right. Never hurts to be optimistic.”

“Besides,” she is barely audible beneath the still-falling rain, “there’s no one to care if I die, so I may as well stay alive.”

“I’d care a great deal if you died.”

“Liar.”

“Never. Besides, you’d be leaving me alone with Morrigan,” he blows out the lamp, casting the tent into full darkness, “and I don’t think even you would be so cruel.”

“Goodnight, Alistair.” Her voice is already heavy with sleep.

“Goodnight.”


End file.
